


Dazed and Confused

by Engineer104



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“my friend dragged me to this party and I just saw my ex quick make out with me”</p>
<p>Saw it on tumblr then eren/jean happened. Tends to be the case with these things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dazed and Confused

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, unbetaed, it's almost 12:30 AM and I have class in the morning. I wrote this in an hour and it's probably out of character...
> 
> Also, I may be in my third year of college but I've never been to a wild party and I've never been drunk.  
> (I've also never made out with anyone, so if I'm completely off the mark, please let me know.)

Jean decides to blame Marco for everything:

For the organic chemistry midterm today that he will probably fail;

For his poor bruised and probably broken nose;

For his awful, _awful_ hangover;

For the small cluster of hickeys over the pulse in his neck.

Well, maybe Marco was the initial culprit, but Jean can definitely spout a mouthful about the true criminal in this situation. . .

* * *

_Last night:_

Jean sulked in the corner, glancing around at the clustered frat boys and sorority girls and various other students, all standing around, clutching drinks and attempting to chat over the music.  It was obnoxiously loud and synthetic, something that shook the foundation of the house itself.

But Jean ignored it all, wondering where the fuck Marco disappeared to and when he’d be coming back.  He clutched the drink in his hand, squeezing the plastic, and sipped at it, attempting to taste as little of the sour, flat beer as possible.

_Fuck Sunday night parties, fuck._

Jean was not a party animal, no.  He _loathed_ large gatherings of any kind, _hated_ the sounds that threatened to overwhelm his ears, _abhorred_ the press of hot, sweaty bodies, his mind lost in the dark and chaos.

It also didn’t help that he had a _very important test_ the following afternoon.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Jean drained his drink and decided he might as well get another, so he elbowed his way through the mob, scowling at people that didn’t move immediately and flipping off the ones pissed enough to cuss him out.  Once in the considerably emptier and quieter kitchen, he considered staying there, until he saw a very familiar head of long, sleek black hair.

This night just kept getting better and better.

He flattened himself against the wall, as if he could blend in with the ugly, orange and green-striped wallpaper, hoping that Mikasa wouldn’t look this way, _no, no, keep your back turned, keep it away._

She glanced in his direction ever so slightly, as if looking for someone (definitely _not_ Jean), and frowned before returning her attention to the short blonde boy standing beside her.  She nodded along with something he said, and Jean was overcome by the sudden urge to be as loud and obnoxious as everyone else at the party.

It was _not_ to make her jealous, no; they broke up _months_ ago, their mutual attraction whittling away to nothing from her end and barely anything from his.  It was a very amiable split, all things considered, and Jean thought he’d handled it rather maturely.  He didn’t cry at all, barely even shed a tear (although yes, he moped around for a few weeks, but that was only natural, right?).

And yet. . .

There was no denying that Jean was getting _tipsy_ ; not drunk, not really, he’d not had much to drink anyway (except this was his first time and he was beginning to suspect he was, in fact, a lightweight).

Jean felt eyes on his face and quickly averted his own gaze to the doorway of the kitchen.  _It’s not Mikasa,_ he told himself.  _There’s no fucking way she’d look at you, no._

But Jean being Jean being quite stupid and occasionally impulsive and fairly drunk, he somehow managed to meet the eyes of a dark-haired, wide-eyed boy walking through the door, and in a fit of irrational desperation, he reached forward and grabbed his elbow, pulling him towards himself.

“Hey, what the ffff—“

Jean, silencing all the voices in his head telling him this was a _very bad idea, what the fuck are you doing_ , kissed him, tilting his head down to better apply pressure.  The boy’s lips were soft and still at first, but the heat of the moment swallowed him too, and soon he kissed back, almost forcefully.

_Is she still looking, fuck—_

Jean darted his eyes to the side to see Mikasa staring in their direction, a question in her eyes, so he let his eyelids slip shut, tried to allow himself to be absorbed in the ill-advised kiss that _he_ initiated.  He reached up, one hand slipping into the other boy’s hair while he placed the other against his waist.

He soon discovered that the boy was forceful, insistent, and _fuck_ , he really knew how to kiss.  And even though Jean had been the one to start it, his face flushed and he found himself pressed against the wall, the boy’s weight keeping him there, his lips, parting over his, trapping him.

Firm hands were on his cheek and jaw, keeping him in place, and teeth nipped at his bottom lip.  He gasped, and _wow maybe this_ was _a good idea._   And when he felt a tongue prod at his lips, as if asking permission, he greeted it eagerly with his own.

Hands began to wander, the boy’s shifting from his face, to his shoulders, to his back, as if he couldn’t decide on where to settle them (or as if he was feeling Jean up); Jean moved his up, along the boy’s back, feeling the firm muscles and the ridges of his spine, hidden from view by his shirt.

His head spun, and suddenly the pressure from the boy’s lips and tongue was gone.  “Hey—“ Jean began, but then the boy was kissing down, across his jaw and to his neck, oh _fuck_.

He could barely hear anything that wasn’t his own sighs, barely felt anything that wasn’t overwhelming heat and hot hands and damp lips, barely registered the muffled voices telling them to _get a room_ , and how the _fuck_ did this guy know _exactly_ what to do?

The boy began to suck at the skin, Jean’s pulse fluttering rapidly against his lips.  He fisted his hands on the back of his shirt, almost wishing he could tear it off.

Wait, he _could_ , couldn’t he?

Jean clutched the hem, so lost in the moment that he’d actually forgotten their surroundings, until the boy was torn away from him, and Jean rudely crashed back down to earth, to the frat house, to this shitty party, to the kitchen. . .  To Mikasa staring straight at him with something like disappointment in her eyes.

He glanced at the boy, at his swollen lips and the thin trail of saliva stretching from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.  He looked rather sheepish as he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“Eren, what’re you doing?” Mikasa asked the boy, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, kissing, um. . .”  The boy – Eren – darted his eyes towards Jean questioningly.

“Jean,” he muttered in response, awkwardly rubbing the side of his neck that _surely_ would have a hickey.  “Nice to meet you.”

Eren flashed him a grin – a truly dazzling _smile_ , complete with white, slightly crooked teeth – before glowering at Mikasa.  “You didn’t _have_ to interrupt,” he whined.

“Really?” Mikasa said doubtfully, glaring daggers at Jean – who was _extremely_ confused about how his ex-girlfriend and current object of his lust knew each other.  “Were you intending to take it upstairs?”

Jean’s face felt warm, warmer than it had been all night, never mind the horribly _public_ making out he’d just endured.  “It, uh, Mikasa—“

“I’m not talking to you, Jean,” Mikasa interrupted, her gaze still fixed on Eren.

“Wait,” Eren said, green eyes narrowing as he pointed between Mikasa and Jean.  “Do you two know each other?”

Jean darted his eyes to Mikasa, who nodded in response to Eren.  “He’s my ex,” she told him simply.

“Wait,” Eren repeated, eyes widening comically, “ _that_ Jean?”

Both Mikasa and Jean stared at him, as if neither could figure out what, exactly, to say to that, before Jean rolled his eyes and retorted, “You know many Jeans?”

Eren gaped.  “Why did you kiss me?” he demanded, voice surprisingly quiet.

Jean bit his lip, considering. . .  “I saw Mikasa, panicked, and kissed the first person I spotted,” he admitted, frowning at the floor.

“Oh, I see,” Eren said coldly.  “A little drunk, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Eren said, and when Jean looked up, he was nodding, face weirdly agreeable, as if he understood, until he scowled deeply.

Then a fist flew into his nose, so fast that all the blinding pain hit suddenly, and he doubled over, cupping his face as blood dripped into his palm.  “Duh fuck?” he said.

“Teach you to take advantage of someone again, _asshole_ ,” Eren muttered venomously before heavy, furious footsteps retreated, softer, more measured ones following close behind.

And after Marco found Jean crouched in the kitchen with a bloody nose, and when he was somewhat mopped up (although the bloodstains in his shirt would probably never come out), he once more sat in a corner and drank stale beer, but this time, he tried desperately to mute the pain on his face.

* * *

All right, so it wasn’t Marco’s fault, Jean decides as he hurriedly skims his notes before his exam.  Marco didn’t force alcohol into his abstinent hands, Marco didn’t know Mikasa would be there, Marco didn’t force Jean to kiss the first asshole he could find.

No, everything was Jean’s fault (except the broken nose and _maybe_ the hangover; that was all on Eren).

But he supposes that the night hadn’t been a _total_ loss, even after he spectacularly fails his chemistry test, even after he spots Eren lurking outside the lecture hall after the exam.

Jean rubs at his aching nose as Eren approaches him.  “What the fuck do you want?” he demands immediately.

Eren frowns at him, his green eyes contemplative.  “I’m sorry about your nose,” he says with a shrug.

“Whatever,” Jean mutters, rolling his eyes, “but I probably deserved it.”

Eren nods, which makes Jean scowl.  His gaze is unfocused, and it looks like he has more to say, but Jean has a lab on the opposite side of campus in ten minutes and really can’t afford to dawdle.

“What do you want, Eren?” he repeats, insistent.

“Uh. . .”  Eren rubs the back of his neck, rather awkwardly.  “Um, I was wondering why we didn’t know each other before.”

“That’s it?” Jean says skeptically.

Eren shrugs.  “Well, no,” he admits.  “I also, uh, you’re a pretty good kisser.”

Jean feels his face flush at the compliment.  “Uh, thanks,” he says, not really sure what else to say.

“Are you over Mikasa?” Eren asks quietly, almost shyly.

Jean glances at him, at his bright, curious eyes.  Then, he sighs and says, “Yeah.”

“Then why—“

“Because people do stupid things when they’re drunk, right?” Jean interrupts, rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t drunk,” Eren mumbles.

“Why didn’t you push me away?” Jean wonders, tightening his grip on his backpack, feeling time ticking away like. . .well, at the moment he cares more about Eren’s answer than he does about a stupid lab.

Eren shrugs and says, “I haven’t kissed anyone in a while, so I guess the attention was nice.  Plus, you’re kind of. . .good to look at.”

_How the fuck does this guy sound so awkward and yet_ I’m _the one blushing like a fucking fourteen-year-old virgin?_

“O-okay.”  When Eren doesn’t say anything else, he opens his mouth to make an excuse to leave, but then he interrupts:

“I, uh, here’s my number.”  Eren sticks his hand into Jean’s pocket without so much as a _by your leave_ and pulls out his phone.  “Huh, no passcode?  That’s not safe, Jean.”

“Y-you can’t just stick hands into people’s pockets!” Jean retorts, his hip tingling ever so slightly where Eren’s fingers had brushed.

Eren completely ignores him and just holds out the phone once he’s done.

Jean snatches it away and glances at the new contact.  _The guy from the party._   He rolls his eyes and backspaces on the name.  “What’s your last name?”

Eren snorts.  “Oh, you’re one of _those_ nerds, huh?”

“Just give me your fucking last name,” Jean grumbles.  “I promise I’m not an identity thief, asshole.”

Eren smirks at him and spells out, “J-A-E-G-E-R.  Now what the fuck should I call _you_?  ‘Pervert that dated my sister’?”

“Shit, Mikasa’s your _sister_?”  Jean gapes at him.

Eren laughs at his reaction and nods.

“How the fuck did we not know each other?” Jean inquires, frowning.

Eren shrugs.  “No fucking clue, but I’m glad we do now.”

Jean scoffs.  “Sure you do.”  Then, he hears the bell tower from central campus chiming.  “Oh, fuck, I’m late.  I’ll, uh, text you?”

Eren meets his eyes, smiling slightly.  “Yeah,” he agrees, and then adds teasingly, “but don’t forget your last name.”

Jean rolls his eyes and sprints off in the direction of his lab, bag bouncing against his back, and he can’t help but smile, a peculiar flutter in his stomach that he can only really associate with _getting a cute boy’s number._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this awfulness.
> 
> I enjoy reading comments.


End file.
